


Music, Love, and Other Things That Make Us Happy

by misha_collins_butt



Series: Murphamy/Memoramy [3]
Category: The 100
Genre: And in love, Angst, Bonding over music, Canon Divergence, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Music, Not AU, but the boys are musical, guitar Murphy, pianist!Bellamy, piano Bellamy, s o f t, scavenger!Murphy, still the 100 timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22366543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_collins_butt/pseuds/misha_collins_butt
Summary: Bellamy discovers Murphy's love for music. Murphy discovers Bellamy's need to please everyone, no matter who they are to him.Song: Blackbird - The Beatles
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/John Murphy, John Murphy/Bellamy Blake, Murphamy
Series: Murphamy/Memoramy [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599514
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62





	Music, Love, and Other Things That Make Us Happy

**Author's Note:**

> I'm unhealthily obsessed with Murphamy. If the photo below doesn't show for whatever reason (because as much as I'm in love with this website, I've NEVER been able to figure out how to successfully add an image), here's the link to it. It's what inspired this fic:
> 
> https://honeybeesintheimpala.tumblr.com/post/190409640384
> 
> Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine, song and characters are not

Murphy had always been a scavenger - when he was young, growing up poor, he would help his dad find spare parts to fix peoples' beloved trinkets and useless decor; when his mother was murdered by the counsel and he had to start doing some sketchy things to get by; when he was thrown in the clinker for getting caught and he was the one everyone in there came to for contraband. 

That talent didn't disappear when they put him on the ground. In fact, he'd like to think he got more practise. 

It was harder now with the Ark on the ground with them. Back in the days of the original hundred, when it was just a group of rowdy teens burning off their frustrations, he'd had a lot more free reign, free time. He was constantly venturing out on his own, using this old map he'd picked up off one of the abandoned cars in the forest, and he'd find the nearest city that was still partly standing and he'd rifle through all the old things the humans from before had kept. They all seemed so worthless now, save for what little sentimental value Murphy could glean from them. To be fair, he wasn't a very sentimental person. He'd always had to embrace transience, be ready to up and go at a moments notice. He'd thought it made him a better adult, being so detached, but once the Ark crash landed, he was reminded of just how much he was definitely not an adult.

At nineteen, though, everything seemed possible, including the idea that he could be a real adult. For now, he could stick to his usual routine. As aforementioned, it was harder to find openings to get out and explore all the relics of the old world now that the Ark was here, and the actually real adults with it. He was less than thrilled to be back at the top of the counsel radar, but every once in a while, a convenient distraction would come along - like the time Monty caused a short in the main power grid trying to do some stupid geek thing, or when Raven got pissed at that dude she was always hanging around, Wick or something, and she climbed to the very top of the grounded Ark and started smashing shit, anything she could get her hands on, and she didn't come down for, like, two hours - and that's when Murphy would sneak away, undetected.

On this particular occasion, he was scouring the surrounding forest, scared to wander too far lest someone notice he was missing, and looking for hidden doors to weird, ancient places like that underground parking garage, or maybe another bunker. Hell, he'd have even taken just a plain old car buried in the brush. But sometimes, he got lucky. And sometimes, he got  _ really _ lucky.

After having given up his search and cutting his losses, on his way back to Arkadia, he found himself stumbling upon a house. Yes, a house. Like, a whole, non-imagined, real life house, just...out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, mountain town. He was genuinely stunned for a few moments that it wasn't rotting, or that it hadn't already collapsed long before he got there. He even almost considered not going in because of how suspicious it seemed. Maybe someone was living there. Maybe it was a grounder trap. At the very least, if neither of those things were true, he'd still have to tread carefully. There was no way the floors in that thing would support his weight at this point. Maybe if he'd gotten there twenty years earlier.

Warily, he opened the front door and took a look around the dust-matted living room, breathing in the loose particles he disturbed. It smelled like musty, sealed off nuclear remains and moth-eaten clothes. The air was stale, hard to breathe, so Murphy pulled his shirt up over his mouth and nose to get some moisture back in his lungs. Cautiously stepping around broken glass from the blown in windows and avoiding any floorboard that sounded too creaky for his liking, Murphy picked his way through the first floor of the hollowed out house.

There was a brick-bordered fireplace in the den, devoid of the ashes carried away on ancient winds. There was a small kitchen with tattered curtains fluttering in the window over the sink. There was a room that looked a little like a personal library that had a desk in it; maybe it was a study, or whatever those rich people things were called. That was it - there wasn't much on that floor, likely having been cleaned out long ago by the first generation of survivors. But there was a set of stairs near the front door that Murphy hadn't bothered giving so much as a glance, because no way was he about to brave that perilous map of rotting wood and straight drops into what was probably a concrete basement.

Unfortunately for him, his curiosity got the better of him - when it came to scavenging, that was how it always was. He'd find someplace that was a little too risky, but that looked like it could have some cool stuff, and usually the hardest places to get into were the ones with all the things that interested him, and so in the constant war between self-preservation (which was an incredibly strong desire for Murphy) and curiosity, the latter won out every time. If he was gonna die, he was gonna die doing one of the few things he actually liked.

So, with a resigned sigh, he tested the first step, pressing into it without putting his whole body weight on it. When it graciously held, he did the same to the next step and the next and the next, until he was expertly traversing the item-littered staircase without hesitation. 

At the top, he breathed out a relieved laugh and turned left, into the shorter side of the simple hallway. There was only one door, hanging precariously from its hinges, and the room was just as barren as the rest of the house save for possibly the biggest bed Murphy had ever seen. He toed his way carefully across to the other side, the longer part of the hallway, which seemed a bit more promising. There were two more doors. One led to a plain bathroom whose toilet had long since shattered into chunks of pale veneer that lay about the tiled floor. He didn't waste his time on it - there was rarely anything useful or interesting in the bathrooms. 

The final room was another bedroom, but this time, it seemed entirely untouched, as if the people who'd scooped the house clean hadn't even realised it was there. Murphy crept slowly into the room, watching closely for any sort of threat. The window was the only one he'd seen thus far that wasn't in shards on the carpet, but he was on high alert for anything that seemed fishy - well, fishi _ er _ than the unbroken window. As he examined the poster-pinned walls and neatly made bed, which wore a comforter with an eerily cheerful green and blue dinosaur pattern on it, he nearly missed the thing sitting on a stand in the corner. Beside a desk with a laptop poised atop it, there was something Murphy vaguely recognised from his year seven Earth Social Studies class, when they'd gone over a brief history of music on Earth before the bombs. He also remembered seeing it every Sunday when his parents dragged him to service in the chapel, though neither of them were exactly devout members of faith.

It was a curvy, wooden instrument, hollow inside with six strings in a grouping of parallel lines stretched taut from the tail to the head. A guitar, his brain finally supplied after a minute of hard thinking.

Curiously, he plucked it from its stand and examined its form. Strummed it once, just to see, and winced at the sour sounding chord. Looking around a bit more, he found the book he'd been hoping accompanied the instrument, a guide to learning how to play. He recalled seeing a book just like it in the library on the Ark.

He gave the items a tentative once-over and decided he might as well keep them, since it was obvious no one else had touched them in the last century. 

Satisfied with his find, he wound his way down the stairs and back out into the open woods, dropping his shirt from his face to suck in the fresh, sunny air.

With a tiny smile on his lips, he made his way back to Arkadia.

\---

That first night, he spent about three hours learning how to tune it, impressed that the strings weren't frayed or snapped. Then, for the next month, he went days upon days without emerging from his little hiding spot on the edge of camp where the trees encroached through the fence and formed a sort of shaded grove out of view of prying eyes.

He got frustrated a few times trying to figure out some of the tougher chords, where his fingers had to bend in intricate, unnatural ways, but eventually he got them all right. He didn't notice the callouses on his fingertips until halfway through the second month, when they brushed his lip while he was eating a sandwich, and he marveled at them, at the capabilities of the human body to adapt and overcome, and at his own perseverance. 

For the most part, no one bothered him or even really questioned where he disappeared to every day. They all just knew by now to give him space. Wouldn't want a repeat of the night he propositioned Raven to go 'Ark smashing' in the abandoned parts of the ring, knowing she'd have been the most likely candidate to be interested. And she had been. Interested. She and Murphy had wreaked havoc for a whole twenty-five minutes of glorious, glass-cracking, room-demolishing, wall-pulverising fun before they were caught and promptly guided back to where they could be closely watched. He would certainly have gone for round two, but he didn't think the counsel would appreciate that very much, and he wasn't about to risk getting locked up for being destructive. 

So, the people left him to what he was sure they assumed was sulking - what else could they expect of him. It was his tragic MO, after all. And admittedly, he really did only have about three moods total: angry, annoyed, and completely emotionless. Okay, make that three and a half, because he definitely counted being hungry as a mood.

Which was why he was currently scarfing down a bland piece of toast as he skimmed the pages of the self-teaching book. He was about to learn his second song. He didn't know the lyrics for them; the book only included the notes and it wasn't like he could really sing all that well anyway. His father had always praised his singing, but Murphy had stopped altogether after he'd died. Hadn't felt like there was any point to it then, with him gone.

He'd like to think that if the book did have lyrics, he would at least make an attempt. Maybe he could ask Kane about finding some historical pages in the wreckage of the chapel.

A twig breaking behind him startled Murphy out of his daze and he whipped his head around to see who was trying to sneak up on him.

Of everyone in this place, the last person he expected to bug him, especially in private, alone, away from people who could rescue him if Murphy snapped again, was Bellamy Blake.

The eldest sibling stood sheepishly just outside Murphy's nest of leaves and branches, like he was expecting for Murphy to kick his legs out from under him. Which was not an unwarranted fear. They didn't exactly have a great rap sheet with each other.

"Um. Hi?" Murphy tried, maybe sounding a bit unenthused about being interrupted, but, hey, he was hidden away for a reason.

"Hey," Bellamy replied strangely. There was a particular tone to his voice that made Murphy think this was about to be a weird encounter, and while he lived for that kind of social humiliation, he wasn't really a fan of being an active participant in it. Bellamy scrubbed the back of his neck with his hand, not meeting Murphy's gaze, and explained, "I, uh...I heard you playing. You're good."

An uncomfortable pause before Murphy realised Bellamy was done talking. And that he'd just complimented Murphy. Which was...more than a little freaky.

"Uh, thanks," Murphy clipped out, not sure what to say after.

Luckily, Bellamy broke the silence for him, words rushing from the taller man like an actively erupting volcano, "I just-I used to play when I was younger and I was wondering if you'd be interested in me showing you something cool...I found."

Something cool. That Bellamy found. Related to Murphy's newest prized possession?

He barely got out a bewildered, "Umm," before Bellamy was blathering on again.

"I just mean, like, I know we don't...I know we're not friends or anything and that's fine with me and I'm not going to try to be your friend or whatever, and if you're not up for it, I won't be mad, but I've been wanting to share it with someone and I guess I just figured you'd think it's kinda neat because you like the guitar and all..." he petered out, eyes finally landing on Murphy, and the plea in them was startling.

So much so that Murphy blurted out, "Yeah, sure," without really thinking it over first. But then as he did start thinking it over, he realised the chances of this being some sort of trap or something were slim to none. He had no reason to be recalcitrant. Bellamy was not a vengeful kind of person. At least, not without the encore of a mob of rabid felons. Alone, there wasn't much of a chance of him trying to hurt Murphy. Bellamy did, however, seem genuinely shocked by Murphy's answer, and for a moment they sort of just sat there in awkward quiet, a grievous stalemate. Until Murphy deigned to ask, "Like, right now, or...?"

Which apparently knocked Bellamy out of whatever astonished stupor he'd been in, as he responded, "Well, yeah, if you've got time."

Murphy smirked bitterly at that and wordlessly pushed himself out of his human-tree burrito, bringing the book and guitar up with him.

"Does it look like I have anything else going on?" He quipped as he stepped out of the shade and into the blinding light. He squinted at the abrupt brightness, accustomed to leaving his wood hut long after the sun went down. "Just promise you're not gonna...try to kill me or something."

The laugh that jumped forth from Bellamy's mouth stunned Murphy, almost offended him even. He didn't recall saying anything that merited laughter.

Through his hiccups, Bellamy agreed, "Yeah, we never really talked about all that, did we?"

"Yup," Murphy agreed, starting toward the edge of the ring, which was blocking their way to the gates. "And we're not about to, so hurry your ass up and show me this 'super cool thing' you're so excited about."

There was a scoff behind him, but Bellamy caught up a moment later, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets and walking at Murphy's side.

"You know no one's  _ making _ you go, right?" The older man questioned after a minute, and Murphy wasn't about to humour any of that tireless, self-righteous bullshit.

So he replied, "You ever gotten punched in the kidneys?"

And Bellamy put up his hands in mock surrender, relenting, "Alright, I won't talk," and then a second later, muttering, "As if you even know what a kidney is."

The jab made Murphy smirk again. He could appreciate a tasteful insult when he saw one. But he did nothing to acknowledge it. He wasn't about to let Bellamy know that he thought the guy was funny in any capacity. Murphy could just imagine the nightmare he'd have to endure if that information ever came to light.

At the gate, they stopped and Bellamy addressed one of the other guard members, probably doing the responsible thing and letting them know where the two of them were off to. Like it was anyone's business. Fuckin' nosy-ass counsel was always riding them to be good little obedient kids. Murphy abstained from playing along whenever possible. The games they played were boring and didn't benefit him in any way, so why should he have to listen to the rules? 

Bellamy finished his brief chat with the guard, spun on his heel, and jerked his head toward the forest, motioning for Murphy to follow. With his guitar strap slung around his chest, carrying the guitar on his back and the book in his hand, he trudged along beside the older man, not even pretending to try and make conversation. Small talk was a hideous, useless form of social niceties that he would have no part of. And, truthfully, he liked the sounds the forest made. Chirping birds and clicking insects and distant screeches of hopping frogs. It was soothing, getting lost in nature, in its sights and sounds and sensations. Almost made Murphy feel like he was at peace. Almost.

Silently, they came up on a sprawling estate that Murphy had somehow completely overlooked. The white marble columns and trestles of the wide, squat mansion were overrun with ropes of ivy and what must've once been a beautifully manicured lawn was now overgrown sod that swayed in the breeze, bending to tickle the dried up concrete fountain. Okay, so, Murphy was...intrigued. And he still wasn't sure what this had to do with his whole guitar obsession.

But Bellamy just led on, crunching over a winding gravel path through the crowded weeds until it opened up onto a crumbling cement patio. There was a set of grand stained-glass doors that were cracked open, exposing the inside of the place to weather's wrath, but when Bellamy pushed inside, the palatial room looked almost pristine, like someone had put in the effort to clean it up in the aftermath of the war.

Murphy followed Bellamy through gaping archways and elegant rooms full of decrepit, patterned furniture and shiny objects that caught the sunlight in the corners of Murphy's eyes. 

Finally, they entered a high-ceilinged, granite tiled space that was empty but for a lonely grand piano sitting directly in the centre, where the dome shape of the roof was highest. Even as they walked in, the simple noises of their squeaking shoes and shuffling steps echoed against the walls, and Murphy thought it had pretty amazing acoustics.

"Holy shit," he breathed, slowly approaching the piano. He cautiously smoothed a hand over the glossy black finish and puzzled aloud, "How did you find this place?"

"Scouting mission. I was pretty surprised to see it out here," Bellamy answered, sidling up to watch Murphy admire the ivories. "I managed to get back out here and clean it up a little. Make it halfway presentable. Sometimes I spend my whole day here just playing old songs I remember from the Ark."

Murphy was onto inspecting the hammers and strings, the innards of the hulking instrument, enthralled by its bits and bones, the parts that he was sure humans from a century ago probably took for granted. There would never be another one of these built ever again. That was damn terrifying, but a little bit exhilarating too. It was entirely possible that this was the last piano in the whole universe. And Murphy was running his fingers over the polished body.

And then some puzzle piece finally popped into place and Murphy whirled around to face Bellamy, interrogating, "You brought me out here to...play something for me?"

"What?" Bellamy sounded a little panicked and Murphy figured he'd caught the guy in some weird scheme to get on his good side, but Bellamy was quick to clarify, "No, I just...wanted to show you...I mean I could, if you want, but that's...that's not the reason."

Murphy believed him. Nodded and swallowed. Swallowed his pride and his disappointment. Why he'd been hoping he was right was beyond him. Didn't make sense, but he didn't dwell on things that he couldn't understand, so he let it go. Eyed the piano again and trepidatiously gathered his courage to make a request.

"Well...you wanna do one together?" He asked in a rushed slur, not looking Bellamy in the eye as an icy spear of anxiety stabbed through his middle. He fumbled with the hem of his shirt, cheeks lighting up red, immediately recognising the idiocy of what he was asking and wishing he could take it back. The best he could do was, "I mean, it's fine, if you don't..."

A little smile lifted Bellamy's lips, and he waltzed toward the piano and took a seat, then asked, "You know any songs?"

"Just...the one from the book. A-And basic parts of ones I can remember," Murphy stuttered. He felt like he was watching the exchange from outside of himself, floating above them, like he didn't have any actual control over his body. "You?"

Bellamy chuckled, gently letting his fingers fall to the keys, and a chord rung through the room. He remarked, "More than you."

Murphy rolled his eyes at that but rounded the side of the piano and lifted himself onto the edge, where he put one foot up on the end block of keyboard and let the other hang off the side. Without saying another word, he began strumming out the song he remembered was his mother's favourite (pre-alcoholism), a bit clumsily.

He couldn't stop himself: he let the lyrics roll off his tongue.

" _ Blackbird singin' in the dead of night _ ," and he saw in his periphery the way Bellamy's jaw dropped and his eyes went a little hazy. Not a shocker, on Murphy's part. He doubted anyone actually knew he used to sing, besides possibly a few of the adults he'd gone to service with. " _ Take these broken wings and learn to fly. All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise. _ "

He peeked up at Bellamy, not expecting the glittering gaze the older man was wearing, as if Murphy was the prettiest thing in the room. He bit back his reaction, though, as Bellamy blinked rapidly, scanned the keys, and sunk his fingers into the next chord at just the right moment.

Without question, Murphy sang the next verse, nearly toppling off his perch when he heard Bellamy joining in under his own voice.

" _ Blackbird singin' in the dead of night, take these sunken eyes and learn to see _ ," Murphy watched his fingers stroke the copper coils, watched how skillfully they moved, as though he'd been blind before to his own talent. " _ All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free. Blackbird fly, blackbird fly. _ "

As Bellamy caressed the notes, like soothing a tune from a broken radio, Murphy forgot to sing the next line and got a brilliant earful of Bellamy's voice, crooning, " _ Into the light of a dark black night. _ "

And he couldn't explain the thing he was feeling right now. Couldn't shake the swell of joy that was knocking his heart around.

He picked back up the next time, singing along, their voices melding like they were made to be used together, " _ Blackbird fly, blackbird fly. Into the light of the dark black night. _ "

Before he knew what was happening, there was a smile curving Murphy's lips, and he didn't try to hide it, no point now. 

And before he knew it, the song was done, and he was sitting there, on top of a piano, in a big empty room, with a guy he tried to kill not five months prior for trying, first, to kill Murphy, and he wasn't sure what part to train his eyes on, or how to say he really did regret it.

So he just stared down at the black and white that now stood silent, and searched his messy head for some way to communicate, and he heard his pulse roaring in his ears, and everything felt like a little too much for a second. 

But then, a warm pair of strong hands were cupping his cheeks and pulling him down quickly enough that he had to catch himself on the piano keys, stomping out a comically ominous note, and there were lips sliding between his own and he was being kissed. By Bellamy Blake. In real life.

Murphy made a surprised noise in the back of his throat, and then a contented one as a swarm of all his logical, rational thoughts skidded out through his nose, thawing away the ice that had encased his head. He melted into Bellamy's touch like goddamn candle wax, tilting his head to let the older man lick into his mouth. Absent-mindedly, Murphy set his guitar down somewhere behind him on the piano at the same time that Bellamy scooted closer on the bench, and, as if they could read each other's minds, Murphy managed to twist himself down until he was seated in Bell's lap, legs bracketing his hips, while Bellamy simultaneously helped him down off the piano with gentle hands on Murphy's waist.

Solid arms wrapped themselves around Murphy's back as he laced his fingers through the curly-q's of Bellamy's hair, letting the other hand fist the fabric at Bell's collar, trying to tug him impossibly nearer, so that there was no more room between them. They kissed like that for what felt like a dazzling eternity, desperate to hold each other in place with avaricious clutches and selfish tongues, the occasional gratified hum buzzing through Murphy's chest.

Then, there was the moment when they came up for air, foreheads pressed together, heaving breaths, and neither of them said a thing. Debated internally if anything needed to be said at all. Bellamy made his choice much quicker than Murphy could. 

The dust cover came down over the keys behind him, and suddenly Bellamy was hooking his hands under Murphy's thighs and lifting him up, the bench chirring as it was shoved back, and placing him on the bowed wood of the piano's face, and their lips were colliding again, feverish this time. Almost on instinct, Murphy bent his legs around Bellamy's hips, heat flooding his body down low where he once let some girl who killed her parents suck him off in the space box. But the arousal felt different now, less hurried, somehow more dangerous, like if they got caught, still fully clothed with hands above the belt, it would be so much more mortifying than if he and that girl had gotten caught while he had his pants down and his dick in her mouth.

Somehow this was scarier than that, and the thought of someone finding out sent a fucked up thrill shivering through Murphy's stomach where Bellamy's hands were wandering, tracing intricate designs across the skin that had been exposed there, because his shirt had gotten bunched up around Bell's wrists when Murphy wasn't paying attention. And Jesus Christ, Bellamy had him leaning back into the hard surface of the piano top while the taller man worked his way down Murphy's throat to the stretched out ruff of his shirt. He paused there, dipping his tongue into the hollow between Murphy's collarbones, then dragging his lips back up to scrape his teeth over Murphy's jaw, and slotting with Murphy's again for minute.

Then, he was at Murphy's ear, husky words spilling out, "Tell me to stop."

But Murphy thought that was a stupid idea, because there was a tent in his jeans and he could feel the hard line of Bellamy's erection against him, and so he shook his head and whispered back, "Don't."

Gravel growl against the hinge of Murphy's jaw and Bellamy was digging his thumbs into the sensitive nerves just inside Murphy's hips, yanking him down and mindlessly grinding their bulges together. 

It punched the air right out of Murphy's lungs, made him tangle his fingers in the sweat-damp mop of Bellamy's hair as the other man mouthed hungrily at his neck. And they did it just like that, just writhing against each other, Murphy's legs locked around Bellamy like a freakin' pro wrestler and Bellamy gasping like a schoolgirl, steaming breath against Murphy's skin.

And the friction and the pressure, it wasn't what Murphy wanted; he wanted so much more, wanted Bellamy to fuck him against the piano right then and there in that stupid fucking echoey mansion, wanted to hear the sounds Bellamy would make. But he knew they couldn't do that because...well, just--so many reasons, and Murphy couldn't think straight right now, he just knew there were things stopping them from doing that, so for now this was enough. Just rutting against each other like horny fuckin' high schoolers and moaning into each other's mouths and clamping down open skin between teeth. It was enough for now, it had to be enough for now, and when it came down to it, it truly was enough.

With a strangled cry, nails embedded in the soft part of Murphy's lower back, there formed a warm, wet spot spreading across the front of Bellamy's pants. Murphy had also known Bellamy was moronically selfless, but he hadn't realised that translated to sex, too. So when Bellamy kept rolling his hips through it, obviously wanting to get the younger man to the same place, Murphy was quick to spill with his mouth hanging open in a silent scream.

And then it was over, and they were both catching their breath in that empty monument with softening cocks that'd emptied themselves, too. Bellamy's inhales trembled in his throat, but Murphy couldn't tell if he was panicking because they both had their eyes closed and foreheads pressed together again. So he just brushed his fingers calmly through Bellamy's hair let himself sit like that, in a rare moment of peaceful bliss.

Until it came crashing down when Bellamy picked up his head, looked Murphy in the eye and said, "I'd forgive you, you know. If you asked me to."

Murphy blinked at him, lips parting on the words that dangled from the cliffs of his teeth, but it felt like he couldn't get the right amount of air in to let them fall gracefully. So, he just stared into Bellamy's eyes, feeling his own go a bit dewy, and he wasn't sure why, but one overflowed just enough to send a drop of sorrow cascading down his cheek, where Bellamy swiped it away with his thumb.

Fucking hell, if someone had told him a month ago that he'd soon find himself covered in a pool of his own drying cum, crying like a damn baby, with Bellamy Blake between his legs, Murphy would've laughed until his ass literally fell off. But, as life often went, here he was.

His throat was so dry, and he could drink a whole gallon of water right now, but instead, Murphy rasped, "I'm sorry, Bell." Shook his head, this time in remorse and not desire. "I'm so fucking sorry. I just--"

Bellamy kissed him then, which was turning out to be a great way to shut him up.

When he broke away, with intense, misty eyes, Bellamy murmured, "You don't have to explain yourself to me. I know." Kissed him again, slow like the sunrise. "I know, and I forgive you and I'm sorry, too."

Breaths quivering, Murphy looped his arms around Bellamy's neck and dragged him down to keep their lips connected, because if he didn't occupy his mouth right this second, he was going to say a whole bunch of unbelievably, embarrassingly mushy romantic shit, and he so was not ready for that. Plus, he'd just jizzed his pants like the fucking teenager he was and he really did not want to deal with that while professing his love or whatever.

So, he settled for just this, just this nice, quiet moment of prosperity that he knew he would be latching himself onto for the rest of his life.

Eventually, they did have to stop kissing, because the cum became uncomfortable after a while and they had to be getting back to camp anyway.

But don't you dare for a second think that they didn't thread their hands together the whole way there, bumping shoulders and smiling secret little smiles.

And don't you dare for a second think that they didn't spend the night together, talking about all the things that made them happy.


End file.
